


i cut his hair myself one night

by somethingradiates



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingradiates/pseuds/somethingradiates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>monroe doesn't know how to be vulnerable. nick's not trying to teach him, but he figures it out anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i cut his hair myself one night

It's supposed to be an easy case — a bunch of pickpockets, starlings or magpies or some other shrill creature with sharp sticky fingers, and Nick doesn't know why he's even assigned to it. But, like usual, he takes it without complaint, and follows up even the trivial little leads that old women and young boys give him. 

Nick asks for his help, because he's been lucky enough to mostly deal with violent murders and serial rapists over the last year. He hasn't seen the less seedy side of the Wesen community — well, it's still seedy, but starlings are a joke to everyone else. Monroe's wise enough not to say that to the group of men — hardly men, they're boys, barely out of high school if they're out at all — that they eventually apprehend. Nick's calling in for backup when one of them takes a swing at him, holding something short and heavy and solid — a tire thumper — and it catches Nick right at the temple. 

Monroe keeps control of himself, but only barely. 

And that night, in a hospital that stinks of antiseptics and stings his nose, Monroe listens to Nick breathe.

\--

 _I trust you_ , Nick had said long ago, had clapped him on the shoulder — and it should have been a sign to Monroe then, when he didn't jerk away instinctively, should have been a sign that the wolf approved somewhere back in its dark mind. _I trust you_ , and Monroe hadn't known how to say that he didn't trust himself.

\--

But Nick does trust him, and it shows in everything he does. He sleeps on Monroe's couch, throat bared in sleep, nuzzling into his pillows (and Monroe thinks, _wash those cases_ , and knows he won't). He puts his hands on Monroe, on his shoulder and back and once, when they've both had just this side of too much to drink, on his hip, warm and solid. 

Monroe doesn't kiss him, not then, but it's hard. Oh, it's hard. 

\--

Nick lives with him. It's a slow process, but it started the first time Nick touched him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling Monroe in towards him, close enough that Monroe could hear his jackrabbit heart. Nick hadn't moved in with him then, of course — that started later, after Juliette had left him a letter full of _I'm sorry_ s and _I never thought it would be this hard_ s and _I can't do this anymore_ s. But Nick had taken up residence in his mind, his mind and the wolf-mind both, tucked into the back at first and then brought to the forefront, slowly, like something easing out into sunlight. 

But now Nick's things are in his house, Nick's gun is on top of Monroe's dresser at night — because Monroe won't let him keep it next to the bed; Nick, after all, is sleeping with a better home-security system than money can buy — Nick's preferred beer (Heineken, the plebe) is next to Monroe's local brews in the fridge, Nick's — Nick, Nick, Nick, he's everywhere all the time, his scent in every breath Monroe takes. 

\--

And Monroe knows that he's on Nick, too, in more than the bruises on his hips or the shadow of teeth at his collar. It's autumn and they're walking downtown, heading to a vegan restaurant that Nick finally agreed to try (and Monroe had been not-at-all-quietly pleased that sadeyes worked on his Grimm). For a second, Monroe doesn't realize who — what — has just passed them; he's an older man, tall and graying at the temples, wrinkles around his mouth from smoking; then Monroe catches just a second of scent and he glances over his shoulder. A coyote, sharp-eyed, a lawyer or a judge; he's stopped and turned around, watching them walk. They're holding hands, something Monroe usually won't do, and the coyote's eyes flicker down to where their fingers are tangled together. 

He shifts, looks hungry. The wolf howls, low and triumphant.

\--


End file.
